


A Tale Of Woe

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [21]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Drama, Pre-Canon, pre-got
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 18:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11880024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Songs can only tell so much, for the memory of man is short and ever uncertain. Yet behind every song there is a tale waiting to be told.





	A Tale Of Woe

The harsh wind whipped snow through the courtyard, its none too gentle touch sending bits and pieces diving through the foggy morning landscape. Though without the cold reigned supreme, within the halls of Winterfell heat radiated off of walls, keeping all the souls dwelling there safe from the bitterness of winter. Such had been the genius of the builder that a speck of dust could not manage entry without express agreement of whichever lord had the walls in his keeping.

But that particular morning, the keep was in disarray. Sporadic fires burned in oppressive silence, not even daring to split the wood, lest they call upon them the ire of their lord. Servants tiptoed about, their duties taken at much a slower pace, they too walking in fear of their lord. The entire breadth of the keep held its breath, waiting for tidings from the chambers of the mistress.

Be it woe or joy that their way came, knowledge would, at least, set them free. Alas, since the lady of the house had taken to her bed, and the maester and midwife stepped in with her, there had come no word. All to the detriment of their lord whose temper had never been as a summer breeze and who saw fit to take issue with every single man or woman in his path.

The servant-women polishing the floors were too cheerful, the stable-hands too bawdy and the cook in the kitchens to wasteful. His own trusted master-at-arms fell victim to the lashing of his tongue, though the two were distant kin. No one, in short, was spared and naught would please the man but to see his lady wife, who, wisely, had exiled him from her chambers, insisting that the gift of life could not be bestowed under fearful eyes. The maester had interceded on her behalf as well, begging that the birthing chamber be allowed to function as it would.

Wise though the lady may be, she could not stop worry from gathering upon her husband's brow, nor would she very soon come to the aid of the harangued servant women, chastised stable-hands and berated cook. Not even the lectured to master-at-arms would benefit from her intervention. For locked in her chambers, she had no way of knowing her husband's dealings with the lower orders and was much too preoccupied with her own woes.

The only other creature of the keep who dared come close to the aggravated man was a wizened old crone. She had served, as had her mother before her, as nursemaid to the lord. Though her milk had long past dried, along with womb, she'd been kept on, to raise her nieces along with the other children of the keep. Only that the lord had no child of his own.

Coming upon the man sat in his solar, staring at flames licking wood, the crone clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "The walls shake and tremble before thee, my lord, and servants vow they shan't step back within for as long as they live. What wickedness tempts thy ire so?" He stared at her, uncomprehending. "Thou hast fear in the hearts of one and all."

"Am I then made of stone, in your eyes?" he questioned harshly. "My poor lady wife has taken to her bed and no word has come yet. Should I be joyful knowing her to suffer and labour?"

Men, never could they be well-pleased enough to have no venom. "She is a woman as all women and shall suffer as payment for her joys. Thou hath best suffer thine ills in silent compliance to the will of the gods." It was not for her to chastise him any further; as a man grown his duty ought be clear.

"Begone, wretch!" he bit out, anger flaring. "I shall suffer my ills as best I see fit." But the wizened woman was not moved, her defiance stoking the flames of fury to new heights. "I say, mightily do you dare flaunt thine disobedience. Wilt thou persist on this path once I have sent thee hence, to the kennels with the dogs?"

"Trouble not thine head, lord," she spoke, her voice firm, "I forgive such callous words, for that is the lot of women upon this earth."

Fain would he answer her in scathing tones, but for the sliver of caution nestled within his breast. The woman was by no means without her own means and ways of protection. He recalled the words of his sire, seeking his vow that he would never so hard a woman, lest he see his life crumble in a heap at his feet. Especially not the get of a witch. His former wetnurse walked to the table under his watchful gaze. She poured wine in his cup, wine which had sat untouched thus far, and returned the cup to him.

"Drink, my lord." He did. The wine flowed down with ease. The sweetness clung bitterly to the back of his throat. He coughed, hoping to dislodge it, but all that managed was to irritate his throat, the forced convulsions uncomfortable to the most. He flung away the cup, throwing the remaining wine as well. "'Tis not long now," the crone soothed, gums visible when she spread her lips in an upturned arc. "The trouble with thee, methinks, 'tis that no patience can be found about thee."

"I've patience enough," he protested, unable to keep still in his seat.

* * *

"Let me wipe thy brow, m'lady," spoke the midwife in hushed tones, barely audible over the irate cries of a babe not grateful for having been ripped out of her mother's womb. Without the warmth of previous moon turns, the poor thing shivered and squirmed, fighting away the cloth wrapping around her limbs.

"Swaddle her well, maester," she ordered from her throne of furs and pillows, "her limbs must grow well." The man, knowing well his craft, took the time to assure her he would do as ordered, but did not abandon his task.

Her first child. She could scarcely believe it that after many a year the gods had finally taken pity on her. The plight hunting every woman once she became a wife, she considered. Though lady of a great house, securely placed in the affection of her husband, she had failed at every turn to provide him with issue. Winter's bite had chilled her the first year as mistress of the keep, stealing away the child that grew in her womb, and after it had taken long to deliver a stillborn babe.

This one, though, she lived. And her lungs provided ample evidence as to her intention of continuing to do so. Holding out her hands, she waited for the babe to be deposited in her hold. And she was. Face wrinkled and red, her daughter sought out nourishment. Relieved she watched the babe feed in wordless overjoy. "Like so, sweetling."

"M'lord," the midwife's voice reached her ears, signalling the arrival of her husband.

She could barely find the wherewithal to look up from her child's face. Yet somehow she did. "Husband." Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. As though she had gone an eternity without sleep; the raspy greeting was met with an anxious glance.

"Lady wife." He drew closer to her bed and peered at the tiny bundle nestled at her breast.

"Thy daughter," she nodded, eyes falling back to the babe.

"I heard her cry." Some blue devil filled her eyes with tears. "Good, strong lungs." His hand entered her field of vision, reaching for the child, fingers hovering uncertainly over her head. A cold shiver slid down her spine. She had wedded a powerful man, certainly one who might easily bruise the precious fragile creature in her arms. Yet he moved not an inch, digits extended still, as though waiting.

"Is aught amiss, husband mine?" she whispered, staring at the callused flesh, its roughness bred by long hours of swinging swords and lances.

"Would thou believe," he began, voice atremble, "that I am afraid." He posed no question.

Struck with wonder, she gazed up into his face. Eyeing the child with a healthy dose of alarm, he brought down one single finger. She followed the path of descent until the digit stroked against her daughter's cheek. "How tiny she is. Howâ€¦red." She was. "Here, let me hold her."

The chill returned, dousing her in doubt. But he was master, to her and all those who lived in his halls. She reluctantly permitted his victory, fussing over his grip. Her daughter, if she was at all displeased by the change, gave no sign of it. Mercifully, the proud father wanted little more but to peer all the closer at her and before long he returned her to her mother's arms with appropriate care.

"Thou hast made of me a happy man, lady wife." He bent to kiss the top of her head and stroke again his fingers to his daughter's cheek. "And now I must appease the gods."

She relaxed against her pillows, returning the girl at her breast.

* * *

The crib sat by the arced lancet, spears of sunlight splitting the shadows. "Thou has been gifted with a daughter, my lord," his wife spoke in her gently lilting voice, the reminder more than enough for him to glance away from the child. "'Tis not at all seemly to bid so close attention to her before she is of marrying age."

He laughed, bringing the thin ribbon away from the babe's clutch with skill. Though she'd not thought it of him, Brandon could be tender. "Aye; a daughter is a precious gift, lady wife. One I intend to guard with care. And what man would step aside knowing his duty thusly?" Down went the ribbon. Their daughter managed to grip her prize and made a loud sound, her success. Her limbs kicked and flailed in excitement, which her father took in with great pride.

"Thy duty, husband. Well glad thou I be at such devotion, I needs must ask; when shall you fulfil thy duty by me? The roses are in bloom, and I've missed their fragrance so." She knelt by the crib as well and brushed back a rebellious curl. Dark eyes stared up at her. At times she did wonder at the girl's unfocused gaze, but she was a happy child, eager to be pleased and pleased to be eager; as though her greatest wish was to gratify those around her. "Up we go," she murmured, carefully lifting the precious weight and settling the girl against her shoulder.

"She is yet a babe; the chill might harm her," Brandon protested. But she had made up her mind.

"She is not so fragile. You have heard the maester, husband." According to the man, there was not the slightest hint of weakness in the child's body, despite her smallness. "And I would not wish to share this with her in thine absence. So come, let us see the roses."

He gave in after further pursuit. If there was one thing marriage had taught her was that persistence won the day. Thus she allowed him to fuss over their daughter all the way to the gardens where the rosebushes grew.

Tall and mighty, the winter roses beckoned from their place nestled amid jagged-edged leaves and bramble-vines. Brandon wasted little time in securing the proudest of blooms, carefully cutting away the thorns. The offering he placed behind his wife's ear, the roughness of his skin offset by the tenderness of the gesture.

"And one for thy daughter," she urged, gazing at the restless child whose interest lied among blue petals. Faced with such a command, her husband laughed at the eagerness she exhibited. "A fair maiden deserves a fair bloom, dost thou not agree?"

"Heartily." He plucked for his child a small bud, not yet fully bloomed. Careful to leave no thorns upon the stem, he presented the babe with his gift. Their daughter's face scrunched up in confusion. Her chubby hands reached out and her head tipped back slightly. "Art thou well pleased, lady wife?" He placed the bloom closer to their daughter's nose and she leaned in as well, showing the child what to do.

She passed the babe in his arms, demanding his blade in return. "If thou dost sit upon the bench, I shall weave a crown." Though a gentle breeze swayed the leaves upon the taller trees, they were quite protected by hedges and tall bushes and such. The bench was nestled between a couple of benign scrubs.

Her husband complied, presumably pleased to be able to play with the child to his heart's content. Strange creatures, men; so very desirous to dangle bits of ribbons before wide-eyed children. But then, he had abstained from allowing the hounds around the child. She ought to be grateful.

* * *

"Where art thou, little rose?" Brandon put on a show of searching behind the curtains. "Come out, come out, wherever thou art." His call was met with a gurgle. A protest, he imagined. Around he turned, scrutinising the length of the chamber. He wished his wife were able to move about with ease, but it could not be helped.

"Very well, lass; if that be thy way, I shall leave thee to thy fate." A cry came from behind a bench, where the inconspicuous form of a hunched figure moved. His daughter was not long in leaving her hiding spot.

In spite of whatever discomfort she felt, his wife had woven a crown for the girl as she had done in the years past. "Leave me not, my lord," she articulated carefully. "I shall be a good daughter to thee." Her earnest gaze stared hopefully up at him. The crown her mother had gifted her with was slightly crooked upon her head.

He picked up her slight weight. "Is that so?" His little rose nodded empathically, one hand flying to the sliding circlet. "Dost thou vow it?"

"I vow it." As one held the word of a maiden in good regard, he nodded dutifully and kissed both her cheeks. "May we see mother now?"

"Only if she is feeling well enough, sweetling." He had tried to dissuade her from bearing so soon after her success, but she was determined and he could but give in. Winterfell needed an heir. "But before, I believe I owe thee the chance to find me." His daughter whined softly. "None of that. I caught thee fair."

"And then may we go see mother?" He nodded. Best to keep her occupied meantime. Spirited as the girl was, she would wear her poor mother down before the candle wick was half-burnt. "Close thy eyes and spin in circles until thou hast heard clap," he instructed, slowly backing away from her as she did his bidding. Might be he ought to bring her to his solar and keep her entertained there. There had to be some trinket which might hold her attention.

Off he went.

* * *

She coughed, pressing her kerchief to her lips before dabbing at the corners of her mouth. She put it away before patting the bed invitingly. "Thy crown is askew," she noted, moving in to straighten it. "There; all better."

But the child was not best pleased. She tipped back the crown and allowed it to fall to the side, blue petals strewn about the coverlet with carelessness. "Is the babe coming soon?" she questioned, touching a hand to the protruding roundness, her curiosity most plain upon her face.

"Soon enough, sweetling." She patted the bulge lovingly. Though she missed the scent of roses and the walks through the gardens, she would have to make do with the memories until it came the time to enjoy such pastimes once more. "Come lie by mother. Thou must be tired."

"I am not tired, lady mother. But if thou must sleep, I shall do the same." Compliance encouraged by her father, she did not doubt, for the exasperating man had the strange notion he must place himself in the path of all the mountain, even if they were only molehills in truth. She carded her fingers through her daughter's hair. The silky strands wrapped around her digits, small knots stopping her progress ever once in a while.

"Sleep, child." In spite of her protests, her precious firstborn yawned and hid her face against her shoulder.

Her crown of blue roses was close enough to grab without too strenuous a set of motions. She took the abused ornament and held it to her nose, breathing in the fragrance. One day soon, for time flew by and wolf pups grew, she would be weaving for her granddaughters, while grandsons ran about waving wooden swords. She smiled down upon her child and then upon the one yet unborn.

The door opened with a low creak. The crone's head appeared, her wrinkled face visible in all its glory. "I have come for the girl."

* * *

All she had left of her mother when the night finally lifted was a wilted crown of roses and a weeping brother. "Little rose, dry thy tears," the wise old woman encouraged. "Thou art not yet so wretched, nor so alone." Only that she was alone, for father had taken to his bed and would not come out no matter how many hours she spent at his door. Laid low by the gods' blow, he refused to climb back to his feet.

"I do not want a brother."

* * *

The gods were cruel masters. She looked down into her brother's cradle, upon the blue roses crowning his head. She had pricked her fingers picking them for him. Father would not do it. He would not even come to the nursery. She bit her lower lip.

"What art thou doing in these chambers?" the maester's voice rose from behind her. She started. "Thou must not leave your bed, else the fever made headway."

"I am feeling much better," was all she managed to say before pain flared in her temple and the world went black. Strong, reliable arms held her. Yet all that she was truly aware of was the scent of roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not canon, of course. We have little reason to give credence to Wildling songs, but the concept itself is fun enough and perhaps worth some exploration. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
